'You're losing me again—’
'I'm lost myself, Mr. President… Will you sign that paper? Will you give me five days?'
'I will, Dr Payton, but why do I have the feeling that I'm about to face a guillotine?'
'Wrong projection, sir. The public would never allow your head to be chopped off.'
'The public can be terribly wrong,' said the President of the United States bending over the Queen Anne desk and signing the document. 'That's also part of history, Professor.'
The streetlamps along Chicago's Lake Shore Drive flickered in the falling snow creating tiny bursts of light on the ceiling of the room at the Drake Hotel. It was shortly past two in the morning and the muscular blond man was asleep in the bed, his breathing deep and steady, as if his self-control never left him. Suddenly his breathing stopped as the sharp, harsh bell of the telephone erupted. He bolted up to a sitting position, swinging his legs out from under the loose covers to the floor, and yanked the phone out of its cradle. 'Yes?' said Milos Varak, no sleep in his voice.
'We have a problem,' said Samuel Winters from his study in Cynwid Hollow, Maryland.
'Can you discuss it, sir?'
'I don't see why not, at least briefly and with abbreviation. This line is clean and I can't imagine anyone plugging into yours.'
'Abbreviations, please.'
'Roughly seven hours ago something horrible happened at a house in the Virginia suburbs—'
'A storm?' broke in the Czech.
'If I understand you, yes, a terrible storm with enormous loss.'
'Icarus?' Varak nearly shouted.
'He wasn't there. Nor was he in the mountains, where a similar attempt was made but thwarted.'
'Emmanuel Weingrass!' whispered the Czech under his breath. 'He was the target. I knew it would happen.'
'It wouldn't appear so, but why do you say that?'
'Later, sir… I drove down from Evanston around twelve-thirty—’
'I knew you were out, I started calling you hours ago but didn't leave word, of course. Is everything on schedule?'
'Ahead of it, but that's not what I mean. There was nothing on the radio about either event, and that's astonishing, isn't it?'
'If things go as I expect,' answered Winters, 'there'll be nothing for at least several days, if then.'
'That's even more astonishing. How do you know that, sir?'
'Because I believe I've arranged it. A man I trust has gone privately to Sixteen Hundred through my intervention. He's there now. If there's any hope of catching those responsible, he needs the blackout.'
With enormous relief, Milos Varak instantly understood that Samuel Winters was not the traitor within Inver Brass. Whoever the informer was would never prolong the hunt for killers if they were sent out by San Diego. Beyond that truth, that relief, the Czech co-ordinator had someone to confide in.
'Sir, please listen to me carefully. It's imperative—I repeat, imperative—that you call a meeting tomorrow as early as possible. It must be during the day, sir, not at night. Every hour will count in each of the time zones.'
'That's a startling request.'
'Call it an emergency. It is an emergency, sir… and somehow, some way, I must find another emergency. I must force someone to make a move.'
'Without specifics, can you give me a reason?'
'Yes. The one thing we never thought could happen within the group has happened. There's someone who shouldn't be there.'
'Good God!… You're certain?'
'I'm certain. Seconds ago I eliminated you as a
